


Sharing Coffee Cups

by Spencer5460



Category: Starsky & Hutch
Genre: Gen, Post-Plague, Prompt Fill
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-06
Updated: 2015-06-06
Packaged: 2018-04-03 03:52:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,659
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4085605
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Spencer5460/pseuds/Spencer5460
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written In response to the LJ Starsky_Hutch community promptfic "Sharing Coffee Cups"</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sharing Coffee Cups

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to Rescue45 for her technical help and ending advice.

Hutch had been concentrating so hard on the latest perp’s profile that he almost missed it. Almost, but not quite.  
“Don’t!”  
Starsky’s lips were just about to make contact with the brim of the cup his partner had set down when Hutch called out. Starsky’s hand jerked and coffee jumped from the cup to his hand then onto the floor where it blended with the nondescript brown tile.  
“Christ, Hutch!” Wassa matter with you?” Starsky glowered at him, shaking the tepid liquid from his hand. A few drops splattered on the report he had just finished.  
The question beat at him, an endlessly annoying drum riff. According to the medical professionals, nothing was wrong. Not today. But a month ago he had almost died from a mysterious plague-like virus. A virus his partner saved him from with only hours left on his clock.  
Before Hutch got sick, they shared everything. Coffee cups were just the beginning. Now Hutch was even afraid to sit too closely to his partner in the Torino. Everyone assured him that he was completely cured, even protected from any improbable recurrence. And - most important to Hutch – they assured him he couldn’t possibly transmit the virus. But they had told him that the first time around, too.  
‘What if they’re wrong again?’ The thought paralyzed him. Made him unable to move, unwilling to share the smallest crumb. ‘What if next time its Starsky lying in that room, locked away from the world and burning with fever, gasping for breath . . .’  
Starsky was the only reason he was alive. His bulldog of a partner, chasing down every far-fetched clue. Rallying the troops in a way that would have made Patton proud. Facing down the lion in his den. Finally even making a deal with the devil himself.  
And writing a word in blood red letters ten inches high so Hutch could see it no matter how out of it he was. Knowing that one word would keep him holding on after all their medical treatments had failed.  
“You gotta get over this,” Starsky was saying now that he had calmed down and saw there was no irreparable harm to the paperwork scattered across their desks. He missed the old Hutch. The one who let him grab a gulp of his coffee, a handful of his popcorn. The one who exchanged a touch in warning or comfort. But he knew it had nothing to do with him, and everything to do with Hutch.  
“You’re gonna live 148 years. And just to drive you crazy, I’ll live to be 149.” He grinned and reached for Hutch’s arm but the other man flinched away. Starsky looked past the rebuff the way he’d learned to over the past few weeks. He just didn’t know how much longer his patience would hold.  
***********************  
Hutch snapped the rod back, then forward, releasing the reel with perfect timing so that the line launched far out across the water. Seconds later the hook broke the surface with a delicate plop. The dilapidated pier listed drunkenly to one side and was a mine field of loose boards but it was still his preferred fishing spot. The quiet seclusion from the city was even more alluring than the abundance of fish.  
The sun was melting into the horizon after a long, hot day. Hutch had turned down his partner’s earlier offer of pizza and a beer for the third time that week. He could feel Starsky’s impatience bubble, along with his concern. But Hutch didn’t want to talk about it. Talking wouldn’t cure what ailed him.  
He felt the gentle tug on the line at almost the same time as he felt the sag of the wood beneath his feet. Hutch didn’t even have to turn around to know who it was. “Hey,” he heard Starsky call out. Then, moments later, there was a crack as one of the old boards gave way, followed by a yelp and a splash as his partner fell into the water. Apparently, those cat-like reflexes were no match for the old dock, Hutch thought as he gave up his catch and wound in his line. He might as well go see to his partner who would no doubt be splashing around in indignation.  
Hutch picked his way carefully back to where a jagged opening had appeared in the planking. Then looked into the water and saw a picture that was all wrong. Starsky, not flailing but lying still, face down in the water, an ominous hunk of board floating near his dark curls. Hutch’s hesitation lasted only a fraction of a second before he dropped his pole and jumped. He turned Starsky over and threw his right arm under Starsky’s chin and across his chest to pull him back to the shore.  
Hutch laid the unconscious man on the sandy ground and was shocked to see blood streaming from a gash in his forehead. The broken board had managed to hit him and knock him cold.  
“Starsky!” Hutch gave his shoulders a little shake then noticed something even more horrifying than the ugly gash. His partner was turning blue. Starsky wasn’t breathing.  
“Oh God!” Panic and fear tangled with training and experience. Hutch knew what to do. He’d done it dozens of times in classroom settings and even a few times on the real deal. Chest compressions one per second, tilt the head and lift the chin. Pinch the nose, cover the mouth and blow. Cover the mouth and blow. Cover the mouth . . .  
Hutch closed his eyes as a wave of dizziness passed over him. The virus . . . the burning fever, the oxygen tent . . . the letters in red . . .  
It only took a few deep breaths forced into Starsky’s lungs to have him gasping and sputtering. “Hutch - what?” He rolled over quickly as his stomach spasmed and part of his dinner came up on the dirt as Hutch sat back on his heels.  
“The dock broke and you fell in the water. A piece of the wood must have knocked you out.”  
“Feels more like it was a sledge hammer.” Starsky’s hand went to where his head was bleeding but Hutch caught it and eased it away.  
“You’ll need to go to the h. . . hospital.” He stammered over the word and Starsky saw the color leach from Hutch’s face. He hadn’t been past those glass double doors since he’d been released.  
Starsky sat upright slowly. “No, it’s okay. I was only out for a few seconds, right? Just take me home and help me clean up. You’ve always been my best nursemaid anyway.” Starsky’s grin turned into a grimace as pain thundered in his head.  
Hutch watched him a few more minutes, considering. The cut had already stopped bleeding although a nasty purple lump had raised just below Starsky’s hairline. But his speech wasn’t slurred and he didn’t seem to be confused. The bang to that thick skull must just have looked scarier than it was.  
*******************  
Once Starsky had washed up, Hutch was able to get a better look at his head under the bathroom lights. It was no worse than ugly. He applied an antibiotic and gauze patch to the cut. Starsky popped an aspirin, then they sat down to watch TV. Starsky knew better than to suggest that Hutch go home. When he eyes drooped during Carson’s monologue he went to bed, leaving Hutch to the couch and to count the hours.  
The glowing amber tubes of the Nixie clock read 3: 53 a.m. when Hutch perched on the side of the bed and brushed Starsky’s curls away from the gauze. Starsky opened his eyes slowly at the touch.  
“Hey, you doin’ okay?” Before, their positions had been reversed. Starsky had sat at Hutch’s side, the strong grip of his hands willing a transference of life force through latex, the dark blue of his eyes promising him 148 years . . .  
“I’m still here,” Starsky blinked heavily as he came awake, the pain in his head now a distant ache. He felt Hutch relax slightly into the mattress yet not move away.  
“Hutch?”  
“Yeah?” The bleak expression and circled eyes made it look as though Hutch was the one who had nearly drowned.  
“Do me a favor, will ya?”  
“Sure,” Hutch stiffened, preparing to get his partner a drink or another aspirin, but Starsky reached for his hand instead.  
“We may not live to be a hundred. Hell, knowing us, we may not even make it to retirement.” Hutch could see Starsky’s slight smile in the pale amber glow and did his best to return it. “But with you watchin’ my back and me watchin’ yours, we’ll do okay.”  
“Sure, partner,” he agreed softly.  
“Just promise me not to die while you’re still livin’. You look terrible.” Despite everything, Hutch couldn’t suppress a laugh as Starsky scooted over to make room on the bed.  
“I’ll do my best. Maybe I’ll even plan a trip to Azerbaijan.” He stretched out beside Starsky and fell asleep at last to his soft snores.  
****************  
The smell of fresh coffee in the morning was one of life’s purest pleasures even though Starsky always brewed his too strong, was Hutch’s first thought as he stretched awake. Then suddenly realized he was sprawled out alone. ‘Starsky!’ But his partner was already at the kitchen table, elbow deep in the Daily News’ crossword puzzle. He looked no worse for wear, except for the patch of white that showed through his dark hair.  
“I was wonderin’ when you were gonna wake up, Sleeping Beauty. I thought I was the one who got knocked in the head.” He looked up at Hutch with eyes clear and bright.  
“This is the last of the coffee, but I can make another pot.” Starsky offered him a cup that had been sitting on the table. Hutch wrapped his hand around the warm mug, took a comforting sip, then handed it back.  
“That’s okay, Starsk. We can share.”


End file.
